The final stretches of the journey were a slow and majestic progression into the heart of the cold. Neptune, the blue giant, grew in the window, a towering sphere of turbulent gases and subtle rings. And beside it, a small, pale moon: 73P. From a distance, it looked like a mere frost-covered speck of cosmic dust, insignificant compared to the magnificence of its parent planet. But I knew that beneath that icy surface throbbed a vital resource, and around it wove a web of interests and dangers that made it, for me at this moment, the most important place in the solar system.
The hours passed, punctuated by the steady drone of the subspace engines and the crew's sporadic announcements. The atmosphere on board grew more tense as we approached. The weary disinterest of the first few days gave way to an expectant stillness. The passengers, who had previously moved about relatively freely, now remained more in their seats or in the common areas, their gazes directed toward the screens displaying the approach. I felt a pang of nervousness that, I must admit, was new to me outside the context of a blank page. I was about to set foot in a place where the rules I knew in New Metropolis probably didn't apply.
Dick had provided me with a discreet package containing my writer's alibi ID, a decent sum of credits on a restricted-use card at 73P, and a small encrypted emergency communications device. There was also a brief note: "Trust your instincts, Jaxson. They're sharper than you think." I hoped he was right.
As the craft began orbital insertion maneuvers, the view of 73P became overwhelming. The surface was uneven; it was pockmarked by gigantic fractures, geysers of frozen nitrogen, and vast plains covered in what appeared to be impact craters or icy volcanic formations. The colors were subtle: dazzling whites, pale grays, and hints of pink and pale blue where ice and chemicals interacted. It was a stark and brutal beauty, a beauty that constantly reminded you how small and insignificant you were compared to the primordial forces of nature and the cosmos.
The main mining and processing base, according to Dick's information, was a largely underground modular structure, designed to withstand the extreme temperatures and thin atmosphere. We saw its blinking lights as we descended, a small speck of civilization in an ocean of ice. The ship docked with one of the outer ports with a soft metallic thump that resonated slightly through the bulkhead.
The cold, unemotional arrival announcement told us we could prepare to disembark. I put on the thermal clothing I'd packed: a tight-fitting undersuit, an insulated outer suit, and heavy boots. Although the pressurized areas of the base would be temperature-controlled, the proximity to the outdoors and the general atmosphere of the place warranted caution.
As we left the cabin, the air in the disembarkation corridors already felt different. It was a dry, penetrating cold, despite the air-conditioning systems. There was a subtle, metallic, and perhaps slightly acrid smell, unlike the filtered and perfumed air of the metropolis. The faces of the people waiting to disembark were a mixture of tiredness, resignation, and the hardness typical of those who live and work in a hostile environment. I didn't see the burly man from the trip. Perhaps his destination wasn't 73P directly, or he had simply disembarked already.
The landing walkway led us to a large reception room on the base. The place was functional and austere: reinforced metal walls, bright, unadorned lighting, and a general sense of temporary occupancy despite being a permanent facility. There were uniformed security personnel, their expressions not conducive to jokes, and a few base employees waiting to direct the new arrivals. The noise was a mix of the whirring of distant machinery, the echo of footsteps, and muffled voices.
I headed toward one of the registration desks, my datapad containing my alibi information in hand. The commanding officer was a weathered-looking man with a scar over one eyebrow and a gaze that seemed to assess every person who passed him.
"Purpose of visit," his voice said, rough and direct.
"Business," I replied casually, presenting my datapad. "I'm Jaxson Cole, a writer. I'm here to research a new novel about life on the front lines of the colonization."
The officer examined the datapad, his eyes scanning the information. It took a moment that felt slightly long. "Writer? We don't get many around here. Not much to see other than ice and hard work."
"That's precisely the story I want to tell," I said with a smile I hoped was convincing. "The reality of life in the places where the foundations of our future are being built."
He handed the datapad back to me. "Welcome to 73P, Mr. Cole. Do not stray from the designated visitor areas without a guide. This is not a place for aimless wandering."
"Understood," I replied, picking up my carry-on luggage.
As I moved toward the base's transit area, I felt the weight of stares, both from security personnel and some of the workers. A writer on 73P. He was unusual, perhaps suspicious. The discretion I sought would be a challenge in a place where every new face was likely to be noticed. But I was already here. The solar metropolis was behind me, a distant memory. 73P, with its cold, its mystery, and its promise of danger, opened up before me. The next phase of the mission was about to begin.
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